A CONFESSION.
There was not much sleep for Geoffrey that night. He lay through the
long hours thinking of his love for Gladys, and half believing, yet
hardly daring to hope, that she was beginning to return it.
Her manner toward him during the evening, her glad, even joyful greeting
when he entered Mrs. Loring’s drawing-room, her shy, sweet glances,
while talking with him, and the ever ready color which leaped into her
cheeks beneath his fond gaze, all thrilled him with the blissful
conviction that she was not indifferent to him.
And yet this only increased his unhappiness—to feel that he might win
her, and yet could not without being guilty of both treachery and
ingratitude toward the man from whom he had received such lasting
benefits, and who had stood in the place of a father to him.
“But my life will be ruined if I cannot win her,” he said, a sort of
dull despair settling down upon his heart at the mere thought. “I have
always been determined to make the most of my advantages for her
sake—that I might be worthy of her; I have resolved from the first that
no one should excel me, and that when I should be through with my
college course I would battle, with all the energy I possess, for a high
position in the world to offer her. But what will it all amount to if,
in the meantime, some one else steals my darling from me!—if, while my
own lips are sealed, from a sense of honor, some other man wins the
heart I covet, and I have to see her become his wife? Good heavens! I
could not bear it—it would destroy my ambition—it would make a wreck of
me.”
He tossed and turned upon his pillow in an agony of unrest and
apprehension, the future looking darker and more hopeless to him with
every waning hour, and when at last morning dawned he arose looking
haggard and almost ill from the conflict through which he had passed.
When the breakfast bell rang he shrank, with positive pain, from going
below to meet his kind friends with this burden on his heart.
But he stopped suddenly while in the act of crossing the threshold of
his room, his eye lighting, a vivid flush rising to his brow, as some
thought flashed upon his mind.
“I will do it,” he murmured, resolute lines settling about his mouth. “I
will go directly to Uncle August and confess my love for Gladys in a
manly, straightforward way, and if he does not oppose me—if he betrays
no repugnance to such a union, I will no longer conceal my feelings from
her, although it may be years before I shall dare to ask her to share my
fortunes. I know if I can have before me the hope that she will some day
become my wife, that no goal will be too difficult for me to attain. I
shall be able to remove mountains, for her dear sake. But if he shrinks
in the least from giving me his only child, I will sacrifice every
hope—I will go away and hide myself and my despair from every eye,
rather than he should think me ungrateful for all that he has done for
me.”
Having made these resolutions, a new hope seemed to animate him, the
clouds cleared from his brow, his heart grew lighter, and he descended
to the dining-room looking more like himself.
Still Mr. Huntress noticed his paleness and the unusual gravity of his
manner, and wondered at it, for he had seemed remarkably cheerful, even
gay, the previous evening at Mrs. Loring’s.
“The boy is working too hard,” he said to himself, anxiously: “he has
too much ambition for his strength,” and he resolved to caution him anew
before he left.
As they arose from the table Geoffrey looked at his watch.
“Uncle August,” he said, a hot flush mantling his cheek, “I have an hour
just before I need to go. Can I see you alone for a little while on a
matter of business?”
“Business, Geoff!” laughed his uncle. “I imagined that your mind was
filled with literary pursuits, to the exclusion of all else. I had no
idea you could combine the two.”
“I should not have called it business; the matter upon which I wish to
speak is far more vital than any business could possibly be,” Geoffrey
replied, gravely.
“I’ll wager the boy is borrowing trouble over his resemblance to that
chap whom we met last evening; he doubtless believes that he is on the
verge of some important discovery, and wants me to help him ferret out
the truth,” Mr. Huntress mused, as he led the way to his library.
“Now, Geoff, I’m ready to listen to whatever you may have on your mind,”
he said, seating himself comfortably, and motioning the young man to
another chair.
“Uncle August,” Geoffrey began, after pausing a moment to collect his
thoughts, “you know, do you not, that I am truly grateful to you for the
unexampled kindness which you have shown me ever since you found me,
such a pitiable object, in the streets of New York?”
“Why, my boy!” said Mr. Huntress, looking astonished over this
unexpected speech, “I have never stopped to think whether you were
grateful or not; you have always shown that you loved me and desired to
please me, and that was enough.”
“I have loved you—I do love you; if I should ever discover my own father
I do not believe that I could give him the deep affection which I
cherish for you. But, Uncle August, I have a confession to make to you
this morning which may cause something of a change in your feelings
toward me.”
“A confession?” repeated Mr. Huntress, looking up quickly and anxiously.
“Surely, Geoff, you haven’t been getting into any trouble at college?”
“No, sir; what I have to tell you, you may regard as far more serious
than any college scrape—it may alienate your affection for me far more,
but——”
“Out with it, Geoff, don’t beat about the bush; I fancy you won’t find
me very obdurate, no matter what you have done,” Mr. Huntress
interrupted, although he believed Geoffrey was making a mountain out of
some molehill.
“I will, sir; confession is the only honorable course open to me, and
yet if I offend you I shall dread to look my future in the face.”
“Good heavens, Geoffrey! you begin to frighten me; speak out—what have
you been doing that is so dreadful?” exclaimed his friend, now looking
thoroughly alarmed.
“I have dared to—love Gladys, sir.”
“You have dared to love Gladys! Well, of course, who could help it?”
said August Huntress, his astonishment increasing, and not, on the
instant, comprehending the full import of the words.
“But—but—Uncle August, you do not understand; I love her as a man loves
the woman whom he wishes to make his wife,” said Geoffrey, with a very
pale face, for the die was cast now, and he waited the result with fear
and trembling.
“Humph! and this is your confession?”
“Yes, sir; I hope you will not regard me as a viper that turns and
stings the hand that nourishes it,” the young man pleaded, with emotion.
August Huntress did not reply for a moment. He thoroughly comprehended
the situation now, and a great sigh of relief came welling up from his
deep chest, for he had imagined from Geoffrey’s grave looks and ominous
words that he had got into some difficulty at college which might hamper
him through the remainder of his course. But it was only a love affair,
after all, and he had long ago surmised that some such result might
follow the intimate association of these two who were so dear to him.
His eyes began to twinkle as he regarded the handsome fellow, sitting
there before him with downcast eyes and troubled countenance, and yet he
knew that the struggle which had driven him to this confession must have
been a severe one, and he appreciated, too, the sense of honor and the
nobility which had also prompted it.
“Have you told Gladys anything of this?” he asked.
“No, sir; it was my duty to come to you first, for your approval or
rejection of my suit. I could not forget that I am a nameless waif, whom
your goodness alone has redeemed from a blighted life. I could not
forget, either, the fact, that when I shall have finished my education I
shall have nothing to offer her whom I love, save my heart, an empty
hand, and a name that is mine only by adoption.”
Mr. Huntress was touched by his frankness and honor.
“I can vouch for the heart, Geoff,” he said; “it is large, and generous,
and noble. Empty hands are no disgrace if they are honest and willing
hands, backed by energy and a resolute spirit, both of which I know you
possess. As for the name, it is above reproach, but not more so than the
manly fellow upon whom I have bestowed it, and of whom I am very proud;
I know he will never dishonor it.”
“Thank you, Uncle August,” Geoffrey replied, with a suspicious tremor in
his voice: “but heart, hands, name, and even life itself will not amount
to much with me if I am denied the love I crave—the world would be
nothing to me without Gladys.”
“It would be rather dark to all of us without her; she has been the
light of our home and the pride of our hearts for a good many years;
and, Geoff, to speak the truth, I believe nothing would please me better
than to have you two marry, if you love each other well enough.”
Geoffrey looked up with a transfigured face.
“Oh, Uncle August, do you mean that?” he cried.
“Of course I mean it, or I should not have said it. Your confession,
although it startled me a trifle at first, as it would any father, to be
asked to give away his only child, was not wholly unanticipated, for I
have not been blind during the last few years, and it has proved your
nobility better than almost anything else could have done, and if you
can win Gladys, I shall give her to you with my sincere blessing. You
have grown very dear to me, Geoff. I have been building great hopes upon
you ever since I adopted you as my son, and now nothing would satisfy me
so well as to have you become more closely allied to me, and thus cement
even more strongly the bonds that already unite us.”
“But,” Geoffrey began, then stopped short, a burning flush rising to the
roots of his hair, although his heart had thrilled with joy to every
word his uncle had uttered.
“Well, out with it; surely you are not going to argue against your own
cause, when you can have everything your own way—that is, as far as I am
concerned,” Mr. Huntress said, laughingly.
“But I wish you to consider the matter in all its bearings,” the young
man responded, very seriously. “You must not forget that you are utterly
ignorant of my parentage. I may even be the child of some unfortunate
woman, that was cast adrift in order to conceal the story of her shame.
If we should ever make such a discovery, and you should then regret
having given me my heart’s desire, it might make misery for us all in
the future.”
“Geoffrey,” August Huntress responded, in just as serious a tone, “I
confess that such a discovery would pain me exceedingly, but more on
your account than my own. Still, if I knew at this moment that you could
honorably call no man father, if I knew that your mother had committed
an irremediable error, it could not detract from my affection for you
nor my pride in you. I hope, however, if such is the story of your
origin, that you will never know it. The name that I have given you will
be sufficient to aid you to an honorable position in the world; it is
your character, what you are yourself, that is chiefly to be considered,
and I could give you Gladys—provided she was willing to give herself to
you—without a demur. Heaven bless you, Geoff! Go and win your bride, if
you can!”
He held out his hand as he concluded, and Geoffrey seized it in a
transport of joy.
“Uncle August, you are a royal gentleman,” he cried, earnestly; “and now
you have crowned all your past goodness to me with this great, this
priceless gift, I am the happiest fellow in Christendom!”
“Well, then, don’t come to me with any more confessions,” returned his
companion, jocosely, though there were tears in his eyes. “I declare my
blood actually ran cold when I looked into your solemn face and thought,
perhaps, you had been sent home from college in disgrace for some
unheard of misdemeanor. Still,” he added, more seriously, “I might have
known better, for you have been studying too hard to have much time for
mischief.”
“Indeed I have; and, Uncle August, I am going to gain my year without
any difficulty,” the young man said, with shining eyes.
“Well, I like to have you smart, only don’t work so hard that you will
break down; I’d much prefer to have it take you a year longer to get
through than to have you injure your health.”
“I shall not; I am as strong as a giant, and now, with this new hope to
brighten my life, I believe I could accomplish almost any thing. I want
to get through with my course in the next two years, and then I must
turn my mind to business, for I have my fortune yet to make, you know.”
“Yes, I should advise you to choose something to do when you got through
college; it is better for every man to have some business or profession,
no matter how much money he may have. I may as well tell you, Geoff, and
I do not believe it will do you any harm to know it, that I have made a
handsome provision for you, and if you desire to get into something
promising by and by, I shall be glad to anticipate my will and help you
do it. I have plenty, my boy,” he continued, confidentially, “and if it
were not for this habit of business that is on me, like a son of second
nature, I might retire and take my ease for the remainder of my life.”
“I think you deserve to take your ease,” Geoffrey replied; “you at least
might have a few years of travel and sight-seeing.”
“I should enjoy that if I could do all my traveling by land. I don’t
take to the water very well, and perhaps, by the time you and Gladys are
through college, we will all like to run about a little. But,” he added,
looking at his watch, “if you’re going on that nine o’clock train you
will have to be off, and,” with a sly smile, “since you are absolved
from all your sins, you can go with a light heart and an easy
conscience.”
Geoffrey smiled and flushed.
“I think, Uncle August, I can manage to spare another day,” he said,
“and if you do not object, I believe I will run over to New York again,
and escort Gladys home. She said something about returning to-day.”
August Huntress laughed aloud at this change in the young man’s plans.
“You do not intend to lose any time in your wooing, I perceive,” he
said, then added, more thoughtfully: “As a rule, I should say it was
better not to mix love with Latin, Greek, and the sciences; but you and
Gladys are so set upon your studies, I imagine it won’t hurt you to
season them with a little sentiment. Go along, you rogue, and good luck
go with you! However, I imagine you need not tremble very much for your
fate.”
“Do you think that Gladys cares for me?” Geoffrey asked, eagerly.
“Go and find out for yourself. I’m not going to betray any of Gladys’
secrets,” Mr. Huntress retorted, with an assumption of loyalty, but with
such a mischievous gleam in his eyes, that Geoffrey set off for New York
with a strangely light heart.